


A Valentine's Evening

by Naralanis



Series: The Adventures of Soft Butch Hermione [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Plug, But Mostly Smut, Cissamione, F/F, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, PWP, Smut, Soft Butch Hermione, Strap-Ons, Tender Sex, There is not plot, anyway, god am I going to hell just by writing these tags, is it considered double penetration if it's a plug??, this is just 3k of tender filfth, this is smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: When two women love each other very very much and have a healthy sex life with some good toys... they have great Valentine's. That's the rules.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: The Adventures of Soft Butch Hermione [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161179
Comments: 9
Kudos: 170





	A Valentine's Evening

**Author's Note:**

> 3k of tender, loving smut, featuring some toys and Soft Butch Hermione. As per when I am posting smut, I'm a few drinks in, so please excuse any typos/mistakes/extra spaces in this.
> 
> Blame wooden_turtle for encouraging this filth.

Narcissa is going to die. 

At least that’s what it feels like, with how loud her blood is thundering in her ears. Her heart is going completely haywire, threatening to beat right out of her chest in staccato bursts as she gasps in weak lungfuls of air. Everything is pressure and sensation and she can’t handle it anymore; she is crawling out of her skin, and a tide pushes and pulls within her, ready to crash. 

“Whoops,” she _hears_ Hermione’s insufferable smirk, doesn’t even need to see it; she feels it all the same in the way the brunette moves away to nip knowingly at her quivering thighs. “That was close.” 

Narcissa whimpers, eyes shut tight, as she pulls against the restraints. They’re silky soft, and Hermione had let her touch them and feel them for hours before tying her up with them. 

It had been an accidental discovery, how simple restraints took Narcissa to new heights—a particularly powerful orgasm when Hermione held down her wrists against the wall on a whim as she sunk in six inches of their favourite strap into her from behind. 

They come to find that there’s something that drives Narcissa absolutely wild about the tugging, the inability to bring her hands down to touch herself, or to run her fingers through the cropped hair at Hermione’s nape, something as inexplicable as the flush of heat that always overtakes her whenever Hermione whispers in her ear about what a good girl she is. 

They experiment, a lot, finding out quickly that Narcissa doesn’t particularly like the burning of rope, or the biting metal of cuffs, until they settle on the silk ribbons; the ones Hermione always presents to Narcissa as if they are a gift, letting the blonde run her hands over the soft fabric and playfully grazing them over Narcissa’s oversensitive skin like rivulets of water before she kisses Narcissa’s wrists and wraps the bindings around them in loose, careful knots. 

Narcissa could rip them away from her bedposts quite easily, if she wanted to, but that is part of the game; Hermione knows she won’t tug them loose, she expects Narcissa not to, and Narcissa wants to rise to that challenge, no matter how much she wants to bring her hands down to relieve some of the sheer agony she’s going through. She pulls again, gently, gently, feeling the slight stretch of fabric and the impossible softness that holds her in place. 

There’s more softness, suddenly, and her cries come out stifled and garbled, wet and throaty. Hermione’s tongue is warm, wet, and determined against her cunt, licking lazily at her lips, languishing, then dipping inside only slightly, taking her sweet time. 

“You were close, weren’t you?” Hermione asks through a little laugh, blowing a puff of cold air right against Narcissa’s sex, chuckling more when that makes Narcissa tremble. The blonde’s legs are not restrained by anything but Hermione’s arms spreading them open and her warm weight keeping them in place, and Narcissa loves it, loves how Hermione holds down every involuntary buck of her hips, every snap of her limbs, as if they were nothing. 

“Tell, me, baby,” Hermione coos, giving another nip to the juncture of her thigh, and Narcissa nods, because _yes,_ she was so close, _is_ so close , _has been_ for hours on end and she doesn’t know how much more torture she can take. 

But by Merlin, she wants to find out. 

Hermione hums, and even that sends a jolt up Narcissa’s spine, stokes the fire, the inferno that has been building and building and building in her belly, she’s so wired. “I think,” Hermione says, peppering strategic little kisses everywhere except where Narcissa needs her the most. “I think you can go a little longer. Don’t you?” 

“Mmmphf!” is all Narcissa can say around the gag, indignant. She’s drooling, she’s crying out of sheer need, she’s an absolute mess. She finally snaps her head up from the pillows to level a glare at Hermione, only to be greeted by that insufferable smirk. 

“What do you think, baby?” Hermione asks again, and Narcissa is about to give her as articulate a response as she can through the plastic ball in her mouth, when a single finger—a single, miserable digit—slips inside her. “Just a little while longer?” 

It’s enough to rip a moan right out of Narcissa’s throat, a loud, needy sound that escapes easily through her gag. And yet, at the same time, it is not enough, it is nowhere near enough. Hermione barely moves her finger, seemingly content in just watching Narcissa desperately clench around it, chasing the pressure she needs so badly. 

Narcissa’s legs are trembling beneath Hermione, and all sensation seems to zero in right at the minimal stretch of Hermione’s middle finger inside her—she’s scarcely aware of the silk at her wrists, now, or the gag making her verbal pleading impossible. 

Seeking out that pressure proves futile, as Narcissa knew it would be, but her body rebels against her, searching for a release that is long, long overdue. Hermione moves her hand, so, so slowly, Narcissa barely feels it when she starts, but once she does, all she can think about is just how _little_ she’s moving and how _torturous_ it feels, especially because, because… 

“Yes,” Hermione interrupts her frantic train of thought with a murmur, climbing off of Narcissa’s legs and kneeling to the side, still moving her finger slowly, so slowly, until it’s almost out, before she sinks it in again at the same pace. “I think you can go a little longer.” 

Hermione’s repositioning allows Narcissa to snap her legs together, trying to get enough pressure to alleviate her suffering. The brunette lets it happen, still moving her finger languidly, unhurriedly, knowing very well that it won’t help no matter how much Narcissa presses her legs together, still happy to see her try. 

“You’re so wet for me, Cissy,” Hermione breathes out, and Godric, if the sheer _awe_ in her voice doesn’t make Narcissa just _melt._ “God, can you _feel_ that? So wet, so messy for me—I love it, I love you, I love you.” 

Narcissa nods, desperately, because she feels it all so keenly: Hermione’s finger moving in and out of her with practically no friction whatsoever, her thighs sticking together, the dampness of the sheet beneath her, the tugging of the ribbons at her wrists. 

“You feel that?” Hermione repeats, and Narcissa writhes when she angles her finger just, just so, curling it slightly—not upwards, to that spot where Narcissa needs her so badly, but downwards, feeling for something and finding it, only a scant layer of skin away. 

“Spread your legs, show it to me.” 

Narcissa blushes, the intensity of Hermione’s touch inside her nearly making her black out in delirium. She’s embarrassed, because it’s so base, so _dirty,_ but so, so _good_ _,_ and all she can do is slowly open her legs, and she feels Hermione’s eyes on her like fire. 

Hermione releases a breathy little noise of awe when she finally sees the glittering emerald, nestled snugly below Narcissa’s cunt. She pumps her finger a little more forcefully, seemingly amazed at the wetness below, drawing out obscene sounds as she lets Narcissa’s pleasure drip down her sex to coat the base of the plug. 

It’s not the biggest they own, but it is Hermione’s favourite—Narcissa knows the brunette goes absolutely feral whenever she wears it, so she indulges her lover as often as she can. The princess plug is silver with an obnoxiously shiny emerald sitting at its base, because Hermione has a sense of humour—and thus Narcissa’s old ‘Slytherin Princess’ nickname from her school days took a whole other meaning. 

Like the silk ribbons, this particular preference of Narcissa’s was another accidental discovery—a finger placed a little off target that one time, pushing just a little, for just a moment, but enough to draw out the most obscene moan out of Narcissa that Hermione had ever had the pleasure of hearing. 

Narcissa had been mortified at first, of course, refusing to admit just how much the mere thought of repeating that little experiment thrilled her. But Hermione had sweetly, gently guided her through that interest, with all the encouragement and zero judgement. They tried and practiced, because practice _does_ make perfect, and when Narcissa was finally able to take three of Hermione’s fingers in her ass, coming harder than she ever had in her life… Well, their exploration of plugs began shortly after, and, Narcissa was absolutely sold on the idea. 

That fact that the mere sight of a plug deep inside her ass affects Hermione nearly as badly was just a lovely, lovely bonus. 

Hermione seems transfixed now, completely hypnotized by the sight before her, eyes completely glazed over, and Narcissa allows herself a second to feel smug. She might be the one tied and gagged, with a plug in her ass, but Hermione is the one rendered nearly catatonic at the sight of her, and it fills Narcissa with pride. 

She chuckles, with a perfectly manicured brow raised at Hermione—she almost forgets about her own predicament as the brunette needs to physically shake herself from her trance. Hermione’s gaze meets Narcissa’s knowing blue eyes and she takes in the blonde's smug brow and the attempt at a smirk that is somewhat impeded by the ball gag. 

Hermione’s eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t you start,” she murmurs, voice rough and gravelly as she unceremoniously slides out her finger. 

Narcissa lets out a high-pitched, needy whine, shifting her hips and shooting daggers at the brunette, trying to shift closer. Hermione chuckles darkly, eyes glittering in the low-light of their bedroom as her hand moves down, resting just above the emerald below Narcissa’s cunt. 

“Now, now, don’t get bratty with me,” she says, and gives the plug a slight little twist. 

Narcissa nearly screams through her gag. It’s a jolt of electricity, of pure heat, pure pleasure, all the way down to her toes. She almost, _almost_ comes right then and there, but Hermione can read her body like a book, and stops her teasing movements just as Narcissa’s muscles begin to spasm, and the sudden lack of pressure puts everything to a stop. 

That tears another whimper from Narcissa’s throat; she’s beginning to feel hoarse. Hermione tuts, leaning above her to drop teasing little kisses on her abdomen, her hipbones, and the sparse golden curls of her mound. 

“Behave,” Hermione warns, though her eyes are kind now, and her lips are so soft, so gentle. “I _always_ make it worth your while, don’t I?” 

Narcissa nods, weakly, feeling tears pooling at her eyes. Her breathing is ragged, her limbs are trembling, and she feels so full and so empty at the same time it’s maddening. 

Hermione shifts, moving upward to rest between Narcissa legs, coming up to kiss at the tear-tracks at Narcissa’s temples, her cheeks. She kisses Narcissa’s lids, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her lips even if partially obstructed by the ball gag. It’s so loving, so gentle, Narcissa feels her body relaxing by degrees until she’s practically melting into the mattress, even wet and aching for more pressure, more touching, more of anything. 

“You’re so pretty,” Hermione whispers, kissing along her jawbone, her neck, the shell of her ear; Narcissa trembles with her gravelly murmurs, feeling goosebumps follow in Hermione’s wake as she charts a course across her skin with her lips. “So pretty, so messy and dripping for me. I love you like this. Thank you, Cissy, thank you.” 

Narcissa’s barely registering Hermione’s words; they make her feel warm, content, and languid. She’s almost afraid she’s floating away; she’s in a totally different headspace, and for a moment it’s like she can see her own body and Hermione’s as if she’s looking at their entangled forms from above. 

She’s vaguely aware of Hermione’s hand fumbling between them, but then two fingers are sliding inside and Narcissa forgets her own name. 

Hermione’s pumps are more purposeful, this time. She’s still talking sweet nonsense in Narcissa’s ear, whispers about how pretty and perfect she is, spread open for her like this, and Narcissa wants to speak, wants to tell her to go faster, _harder,_ to give her _more._

Despite the awkward angle, Hermione maintains a steady rhythm with her two fingers, and despite the stronger thrusts, she’s being gentle, so gentle, it’s driving Narcissa insane. Hermione’s aware of the plug, doesn’t want to fill Narcissa too much too soon, but Narcissa wants more, _has_ to take more, needs it desperately, but has no way of communicating it. Her only recourse is to whine, whimper, moan wetly through her gag as Hermione continues, unrelenting. 

“So pretty, for me, so perfect,” Hermione breathes out, a little hoarser than before. “Lift up your leg, baby.” 

Narcissa does, practically on instinct, and Hermione immediately raises it over her shoulder, opening her up further and slipping a third finger in when Narcissa least expects it. The blonde can do little more than arch her back as Hermione readjusts and speeds up, driving her fingers home with purpose. 

“That’s it, Cissy,” Hermione pants, her thrusts ripping out little moans from Narcissa’s throat every time she bottoms out. Narcissa feels the brunette’s fingers inside her cunt glide against the plug in her ass, separated by nothing but skin, and the pressure in her lower abdomen is building, and building, and building, coiling tighter by the second, and she almost expects Hermione to pull away at the last minute to keep her on the edge for another eternity. 

Hermione doesn’t—instead, she speeds up and curls her fingers upward inside her, and Narcissa’s eyes shoot open as she gasps, nearly choking on her own saliva as it pools in her mouth. Hermione is grinning wickedly, eyes shimmering, and all that Narcissa can think is _fucking finally._

Hermione’s grin widens, like she can read Narcissa’s mind, and immediately her thumb comes into play, zeroing in on Narcissa’s clit with fatal precision at the same time she says, unbearably smugly, _come for me, baby._

It doesn’t even take a second; Narcissa’s been teetering on the edge for so long now, she isn’t really pushed so much as she leaps over it with a muffled scream. Relief washes upon her like a wave crashing upon a rocky cliff, muscles spasming and limbs trembling uncontrollably, and Hermione just keeps on fucking her through all of it. 

She blacks out; she must have, because the next thing she knows, Hermione’s slowing down and slipping out of her, trailing wetness on her leg as she massages it, lowering it gently, cooing in her ear. 

“Good girl, Cissy, you did so well; you held out for so long… I’m so proud of you.” 

Narcissa gives her a weak little smile, lips tugging behind the gag. It’s the most she can do at the moment, with slight tremors still running through her body, out of her control. Her eyelids feel heavy, her abdomen feels warm, and overall, she feels… molten, lazy, sated. It’s bliss. 

Hermione shuffles away, and Narcissa is only vaguely aware of her chuckle—she’s probably standing back to admire her work, the absolute wreck she made of Narcissa, and the blonde finds that she doesn’t mind at all. She’s too content, too warm, too heartachingly happy right now; if she closes her eyes, she could fall asleep within seconds. 

She almost does, too, but there’s the sudden, gentle and cold pressure of silicone nudging at her cunt, gliding deliciously over her clit, and her eyes snap open, immediately meeting Hermione’s wicked gaze. She’s between Narcissa’s legs again, wearing their favourite strap, the one that curves _just_ so, the one enchanted so she can _feel_ just how tight Narcissa is around it. 

Narcissa’s eyes widen as Hermione grins, thinking of the stretch, the delicious ache that’s about to come when she takes both the strap and the plug _at the same time,_ _good fucking Godric_ and she thinks her brain shorts out. 

“Oh, baby,” Hermione quips playfully, lining herself up. “Did you really think we were done?” 

All it takes is a snap of her hips—Narcissa’s so wet, so open, so willing, and so _ready_ —and Hermione slides in a couple of inches without any resistance. There is a flash of mild pain that is gone in a second, giving way to a pleasurable burn as Narcissa feels Hermione push in further, inch by inch, slow as molasses. 

Narcissa cries out loudly when Hermione finally bottoms out with a hiss, their hips slotting together with a wet, fleshy sound that is just deliciously obscene. Her legs wrap around Hermione’s waist, pulling her close, and Hermione keeps to slow, steady strokes, barely pulling out, but pushing back in with precision and strength. 

Narcissa’s seeing stars—the noises she’s making aren’t altogether human anymore, and it seems Hermione wants to hear them too, because she reaches a trembling hand to undo the snap of the ball-gag as soon as Narcissa’s cries grow louder. 

Hermione removes the gag—there’s a string of saliva still connecting it to Narcissa’s mouth, and the visual seems to drive the brunette insane—and tosses it away, rushing up to meet Narcissa’s lips with her own with a desperate groan. 

The ribbons are the next to go. Narcissa could very well tug them free, but she’s enjoying the way Hermione’s fumbling to free her wrists, and once she does, Narcissa doesn’t waste a second to wrap her arms around Hermione's shoulders as the brunette fucks into her so, so sweetly. 

She’s so full, and the stretch of Hermione inside her is just the right amount of too much, and now she has no ties, no gag, and the noises Hermione elicits from her increase in volume as her strokes deepen. Their kisses turn sloppy and clumsy with their moans, their teeth clash occasionally, but there’s practically no space between them and it’s _perfect._

Hermione’s panting, arms trembling with the exertion of holding herself up; Narcissa arches into each of her deep, perfect strokes, and she’s _close,_ she’s so clos e all Narcissa can do is clench around her and hold on for dear life , because _she’s_ close to her second mind-blowing orgasm of the night. 

“God, Cissy,” Hermione moans against her lips, voice coming out in little gasps. “You’re so good for me, taking me and your plug so well; you feel so good, I love you, I love you, I _love_ you…” 

Narcissa can’t even respond beyond another series of broken little moans that are swallowed up by Hermione’s kisses; she’s feeling that coiling pressure in her abdomen again and it shows no signs of stopping as Hermione’s hips stutter and slap against her. 

She comes just before Hermione does; she’s filled to the brim, and it feels so good, so _right_ with Hermione on top of her, pumping in and out so, so sweetly. That same wave of sheer pleasure envelops her all over again, in warm, decadent bliss, and Hermione is quick to follow, gasping into her mouth as her body tenses for long, delicious moments. 

Hermione melts into her, and Narcissa welcomes her solid weight like a blanket as the air in the room begins to cool down. The brunette is still buried inside her, breathing heavily against her sweaty chest, and Narcissa wants this moment to last forever. 

She’s almost dozed off when Hermione grunts, making to move, and despite her limbs feeling like jelly at the moment, Narcissa is quick to wrap her legs around her lover a bit more tightly, unwilling to let her go just yet. 

“No,” she demands bossily, voice hoarse. “Stay for a little while.” 

She feels Hermione’s lips tug into a grin against her sweat-slicked skin. “Woman,” she gasps out. “You’re a lot of work, you know that?” she says, raising her head to level a mock-glare at Narcissa. 

Narcissa’s responding grin is cheeky and smug. “Perhaps,” she concedes cheerfully, even if she feels her lids drooping with exhaustion. “But I am worth it.” 

Hermione raises a questioning brow, barking out a laugh. “Is that so? Why?” 

Narcissa kisses her sweetly, biting at Hermione’s lip as she lingers. “One,” she says, giving the brunette another peck. “You love me.” 

“Very true,” Hermione nods. 

“Two: I love you.” 

“That’s always good to hear.” 

Narcissa smacks her playfully, and Hermione snorts, because she might as well have been slapped by a fallen leaf Narcissa is so loose-limbed and pliant and just plain _adorable._

“And three: it’s Valentine’s Day and I deserve it.” 

Hermione lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle, burrowing into the crook of Narcissa’s neck, clearly content beyond belief as she sighs. “Can’t argue with that.” 


End file.
